The Mummy Case (7 page)

Emerson's cheeks darkened. "Control yourself," I implored. "Speak slowly and breathe deeply, Emerson. It cannot be as bad as that."

"It is worse, Peabody. Do you know what site that bas------that wretch had the effrontery to offer me? 'You desire pyramids,' he said, with that French smirk of his, 'I give you pyramids, my dear cabbage. Mazghunah. What do you say to Mazghunah?'"

He gave the guttural a rolling sound that made the word
resemble an oath in some exotic language. "Mazghunah," I echoed. "Emerson, I confess the name is wholly unfamiliar. Where is it?"

My admission of ignorance had the desired effect of soothing Emerson's wounded dignity. He seldom gets the chance to lecture me on Egyptology. However, in this case I was not just being tactful. I did not recognize the name, and when Emerson had explained, I knew why it meant nothing to me—and why my poor spouse had been so wroth.

Mazghunah is only a few kilometers south of Dahshoor, the site we had wanted. Dahshoor, Sakkara, Giza and Mazghunah itself are the ancient cemeteries of Memphis, the once-great capital of ancient Egypt, of which only a few mounds of ruins now remain. All are close to Cairo and all boast pyramid tombs; but the two "pyramids" of Mazghunah exist only as limestone chips on the level desert floor. No one had bothered to investigate them because there was hardly anything left to investigate.

"There are also late cemeteries," said Emerson with a sneer. "De Morgan made a point of that, as if it were an added inducement instead of a handicap."

He pronounced the word "late" as if it were an insult, which to Emerson it was. Emerson's interest in Egypt began about 4000 B.C. and stopped 2500 years later. Nothing after 1500 B.C. had the slightest attraction for him, and the late cemeteries were dated to Roman and Ptolemaic times—trash, so far as Emerson was concerned.

Though my own spirits were low, I sought to cheer my afflicted husband. "There may be papyri," I said brightly. "Remember the papyri Mr. Petrie found at Hawara."

Too late I realized that the name of Mr. Petrie was not designed to improve Emerson's mood. Scowling, he attacked the fish the waiter had set in front of him, as if his fork were a spear and the fish were Mr. Petrie, boiled, flayed and at his mercy.

"He lied to me," he grunted. "His publication was not ready. It was late this year. Did you know that, Amelia?"

I did know. He had told me approximately fifteen times. Emerson brooded darkly on the iniquities of Petrie and de Morgan. "He did it deliberately, Amelia. Mazghunah is close to Dahshoor; he will make sure I receive daily reports of his discoveries while I dig up Roman mummies and degenerate pottery."

"Then don't take Mazghunah. Demand another site."

Emerson ate in silence for a time. Gradually his countenance lightened and a smile curved his well-shaped lips. I knew that smile. It boded ill for someone—and I thought I knew for whom.

At last my husband said slowly, "I will accept Mazghunah. You don't mind, do you, Peabody? When I visited the site some years ago I determined to my own satisfaction that the remains were those of pyramids. The superstructures have entirely disappeared, but there are surely passageways and chambers underground. There is not a chance of anything better; Firth has Sakkara, and the Giza pyramids are so popular with tourists, one can't work there."

"I don't mind. 'Whither thou goest,' you know, Emerson; but I do hope you are not planning any ill-advised assaults on M. de Morgan."

"I cannot imagine what you mean," said Emerson. "Naturally I will offer the gentleman the benefit of my experience and superior knowledge whenever the opportunity presents itself. I am determined to turn the other cheek, and render good where..."

He broke off, catching my skeptical eye upon him; and after a moment his great hearty laugh boomed out across the dining salon, stopping conversation and making the crystal chime. Emerson's laugh is irresistible. I joined him, while Ramses watched with a faint smile, like an elderly philosopher tolerant of the antics of the young. It was not until after we had returned to our room that I discovered Ramses had taken advantage of our distraction to conceal his fish under his blouse as a present for Bastet. She enjoyed it very much.

Though I attempted to conceal my feelings, I was exceedingly put out. It seemed hard indeed that I should have to suffer from Emerson's blunder, for it was nothing less. De Morgan had dug at Dahshoor the year before. It would have required considerable tact and persuasion to convince him to yield the site to another excavator, and Emerson's methods of persuasion were not calculated to win over an opponent. Though I had not been present, I knew only too well what had transpired. Emerson had marched into de Morgan's office, unannounced and uninvited; rested his fists on the director's desk; and proclaimed his intent. "Good morning, monsieur. I will be working at Dahshoor this season."

De Morgan had stroked his luxuriant mustache. "Mais, mon cher collegue, c'est impossible. I will be working at Dahshoor this season."

Emerson's response would have been an indignant shout and a crash of his fist on the table; de Morgan would have continued to stroke his mustache and shake his head until Emerson stamped out of the door, annihilating small tables and miscellaneous chairs as he went.

I looked through the reference books we had brought with us in a vain attempt to find something about Mazghunah. Few of the authorities so much as mentioned it, and if there were pyramids at the site, that fact was not widely known. If Emerson had not confirmed their existence, I would have suspected de Morgan of inventing them, to taunt Emerson.

Emerson exaggerates, in his humorous fashion, when he says I have a passion for pyramids. However, I admit to a particular affection for these structures. On my first visit to Egypt as a tourist I had fallen victim to the charm of their dark, stifling passageways, carpeted with rubble and bat droppings. Yet, since taking up the practice of archaeology I had never been able to investigate a pyramid professionally. Our interests had taken us elsewhere. I had not realized how I yearned to explore a pyramid until I found I could not.

" Abusir," I said. "Emerson, what about Abusir? The pyramids there are much decayed, but they are pyramids."

"We will dig at Mazghunah," said Emerson. He said it very quietly, but his chin protruded in a manner I knew well. Emerson's chin is one of his most seductive features. When it jutted out in that particular fashion, however, I had to repress a desire to strike it smartly with my clenched fist.

"The remains of the pyramid at Zawaiet el 'Aryan," I persisted. "Maspero failed to enter it ten years ago. We might find the entrance he missed."

Emerson was visibly tempted. He would love to do Maspero or any other archaeologist one better. But after a moment he shook his head. "We will dig at Mazghunah," he repeated. "I have my reasons, Amelia."

"And I know what they are. They do you no credit, Emerson. If you intend—"

Crossing the room in a few long strides, he stopped my mouth with his. "I will make it up to you, Peabody," he murmured. "I promised you pyramids, and pyramids you will have. In the meantime, perhaps this..."

Being unable to articulate, I gestured wordlessly at the door
connecting our room to the next. Ramses had retired thither, purportedly to give John an Arabic lesson. The murmur of their voices, broken now and again by a chuckle from John, bore out the claim.

With a hunted look at the door, my husband released me. "When will this torment end?" he cried, clutching his hair with both hands.

Ramses' voice broke off for a moment and then continued.

"John should be able to resume his duties tomorrow," I said.

"Why not tonight?" Emerson smiled meaningfully.

"Well... Good heavens," I exclaimed. "I had forgotten. We have a rendezvous this night, Emerson. The distressing news quite shook it out of my head."

Emerson sat down on the bed. "Not again," he said. "You promised me, Amelia___What are you up to now?"

I told him what had transpired at the bazaar. Little gasps and cries escaped his lips as I proceeded, but I raised my voice and went on, determined to present him with a connected narrative. At the end I produced the scrap of papyrus.

"Obviously Abd el Atti was lying when he claimed he had no papyri," I said. "To be sure, this is Coptic, but—"

Emerson pushed the fragment aside. "Precisely. Walter is not interested in Coptic; that is the language of Christian Egypt."

"I am well aware of that, Emerson. This fragment proves—"

"You had no business going to that fat scoundrel. You know what I think of—"

"And you know that the dealers are likely to have the best manuscripts. I promised Walter—"

"But this is not—"

"Where there is one scrap there must be a papyrus. I—"

"I told you—"

"I am convinced—"

"You—"

"You—"

By this time we were both on our feet and our voices had risen considerably. I make no apologies for my exasperation.

Emerson would try the patience of a saint. He loses his temper on the slightest provocation.

We broke off speaking at the same time, and Emerson began pacing rapidly up and down the room. In the silence the rise and fall of Ramses' voice went placidly on.

Finally Emerson left off pacing. Rapid movement generally calms him, and I will do him the justice to admit that although he is quick to explode, he is equally quick to regain his temper. I smoothed his ruffled locks. "I told Abd el Atti we would come to the shop tonight."

"So you said. What you failed to explain is why the devil I should put myself out for the old rascal. There are other things I would rather do tonight."

His eyes sparkled significantly as he looked at me, but I resisted the appeal. "He is desperately afraid of something or someone, Emerson. I believe he is involved in the illicit antiquities business."

"Well, of course he is, Peabody. All of them are."

"I am referring, Emerson, to the recent, unprecedented flood of stolen objects you and Walter were discussing. You yourself said that some new player must have entered the game—some unknown genius of crime, who has organized the independent thieves into one great conspiracy."

"I said no such thing! I only suggested—"

"Abd el Atti is a member of the gang. His reference to the Master eating his heart—"

"Picturesque, but hardly convincing," said Emerson. His tone was less vehement, however, and I saw that my arguments had made an impression. He went on, "Are you certain you understood correctly? I cannot believe he would make a damaging admission in your presence."

"He didn't know I was present. Besides—weren't you listening, Emerson?—he was speaking the siim issaagha."

"Very well," Emerson said. "I agree that Abd el Atti may well be involved in something deeper and darker than his usual shady activities. But your notion that he is a member of some
imaginary gang is pure surmise. You have an absolutely unique ability to construct a towering structure of theory on one single fact. Foundationless towers totter, my dear Peabody. Control your rampageous imagination and spare your afflicted spouse, I beg."

He was working himself into another fit of temper, so I only said mildly, "But supposing I am right, Emerson? We may have an opportunity to stop this vile traffic in antiquities, which we both abhor. Is not the chance of that, however remote, worth the trifling inconvenience I propose?"

"Humph," said Emerson.

I knew the grunt was as close to a concession as I was likely to get, so I did not pursue the discussion, which would have been ended in any case by the advent of our son, announcing that the Arabic lesson was over. I did not want Ramses to get wind of our plan. He would have insisted on accompanying us, and his father might have been foolish enough to agree.

I was about to put my scrap of papyrus away when Ramses asked if he might look at it. I handed it over, cautioning him to be careful, an admonition to which he replied with a look of mingled scorn and reproach.

"I know you will," I said. "But I don't see what you want with it. Your Uncle Walter has not taught you Coptic along with hieroglyphs, has he?"

"Uncle Walter does not know de Coptic," replied Ramses loftily. "I am only curious to see what I can make of dis from my acquaintance wit' de ancient language; for, as you may be aware, de Coptic language is a development of de Egyptian, t'ough written in Greek script."

I waved him away. Bad enough to be lectured on Egyptology by one's husband; the smug and dogmatic pronouncements of my juvenile son were sometimes extremely trying to my nerves. He settled down at the table with Bastet beside him. Both bent their attention upon the text, the cat appearing to be as interested as the boy.

The door of the adjoining room now responded to a series
of blows—John's version of a knock. He has extremely large hands and no idea of his own strength. It was a pleasure to hear the sound, however, after the long silence from that direction, and I bade him enter. Emerson took one look at him and burst out laughing.

He wore the uniform of a footman, which he had presumably brought with him from England—knee breeches, brass buttons and all—and I must confess that he looked rather ridiculous in that setting. Emerson's mirth brought a faint blush to his boyish face, though it was apparent he had no idea what his master found so funny. "I am at your service, sir and madam," he announced. "With apologies for failing to carry out me duties in the past days and respectful thanks for the kind attentions received from madam."

"Very well, very well," Emerson said. "Sure you are fit, my boy?"

"Quite fit," I assured him. "Now, John, be sure never to leave off your flannel, and take care what you eat and drink."

I glanced at Ramses as I concluded my advice, remembering the sweetmeat he had consumed—an incident I had not thought worth mentioning to his father. He seemed quite all right. I had been sure he would. Poisonous leaves and berries, india rubbers, ink and quantities of sweets that would have felled an ox had all passed through Ramses' digestive tract without the slightest disturbance of that region.

Standing stiffly at attention, John asked for orders. I said, "There is nothing to do at present; why don't you go out for a bit? You have seen nothing of the city, or even the hotel."

"I will go wit' him," said Ramses, pushing his chair back.

"I don't know," I began.

"What of your work, my son?" inquired Emerson. This attempt, more subtle than my own, was equally fruitless. Ramses picked up his hat and started for the door. "De manuscript appears to have belonged to a person called Didymus Thomas," he said coolly. "Dat is all I can make out at present, but I will
have anodder go at it after I have procured a Coptic dictionary. Come along, John."

"Stay in the hotel," I said quickly. "Or on the terrace. Do not eat anything. Do not speak to the donkey boys. Do not repeat to anyone the words you learned from the donkey boys. Do not go in the kitchen, or the bathrooms, or any of the bedrooms. Stay with John. If you mean to take Bastet with you, put her on the lead. Do not let her off the lead. Do not let her chase mice, dogs, other cats or ladies' skirts."

I paused for breath. Ramses pretended to take this for the end of the lecture. With an angelic smile he slipped out the door.

"Hurry," I implored John. "Don't let him out of your sight."

"You may count on me, madam," said John, squaring his shoulders. "I am ready and equal to the task. I—"

"Hurry!" I pushed him out the door. Then I turned to Emerson. "Did I cover all the contingencies?"

"Probably not," said my husband. He drew me into the room and closed the door.

"There is no way of locking it," I said, after an interval.

"Mmmm," said Emerson agreeably.

"They will not be gone long...."

"Then we must make the best use of the time at our disposal," said Emerson.

I had neglected to forbid Ramses to climb the palm trees in the courtyard. He explained in an injured tone that he had only wanted to get a better look at the dates, of which he had heard; but he had not eaten a single one. In proof of this he presented me with a handful, removing them with some difficulty from the pocket of his little shirt.

I sent him off to be bathed by John and began laying out Emerson's evening clothes. He studied them with loathing.

"I told you, Amelia, I have no intention of wearing those garments. What torture have you planned now?"

"I have invited guests to dine with us tonight," I said, removing my wrapper. "Help me with my dress, will you please?"

Emerson is so easily distracted. He moved with alacrity to drop the gown over my head, and then bent his attention upon the buttons. "Who is it? Not Petrie; he never accepts invitation to dine. Sensible man__Naville? Carter? Not..." The hands
fumbling along my spine stopped, and Emerson's face loomed up over my shoulder, glaring like a gargoyle. "Not de Morgan! Peabody, if you have some underhanded scheme in mind—"

"Would I do such a thing?" De Morgan had refused the invitation, with polite regrets; he was engaged elsewhere. "No," I continued, as Emerson returned to the buttons—the frock had dozens of them, each about the size of a pea. "I was happy to learn the Istar and the Seven Hathors are in port."

"Oh. Sayce and Wilberforce." Emerson breathed heavily on the back of my neck. "I cannot imagine what you see in those two. A dilettante clergyman and a renegade politician—"

"They are excellent scholars. The Reverend Sayce has just been appointed to the new chair of Assyriology at Oxford."

"Dilettantes," Emerson repeated. "Sailing up and down the Nile on their dahabeeyahs instead of working like honest men."

A wistful sigh escaped me and Emerson, the most sensitive of men, again interrupted his labors to look inquiringly over my shoulder. "Do you miss your dahabeeyah, Peabody? If it would please you—"

"No, no, my dear Emerson. I confess that season of sailing was utter bliss; but I would not exchange it for the pleasure of our work together."

This admission resulted in a longer interruption of the buttoning, but I finally persuaded Emerson to complete the task. Turning, I demanded his comment.

"I like that dress, Peabody. Crimson becomes you. It reminds
me of the gown you wore the night you proposed marriage to me."

"You will have your little joke, Emerson." 1 inspected myself in the mirror. "Not too bright a shade for a matron and the mother of a growing boy? No? Well, I accept your judgment as always, my dear Emerson."

I too had fond memories of the gown to which he referred. I had worn it on the night he proposed to me, and I took care always to have in my wardrobe a frock of similar cut and color. One abomination of the past was gone, however—the bustle. I could have wished that some fashion arbiter would also do away with corsets. Mine were never as tight as fashion decreed, for 1 had grave suspicions about the effect of tight lacing on the internal organs. I did not wear them at all under my working clothes, but some concession was necessary with evening dress in order to attain the smooth flowing line then in style.

I clasped about my neck a gold chain bearing a scarab of Thutmose III—my husband's gift—and, my toilette completed, went to assist Emerson with his. John and Ramses returned in time to contribute their assistance, which was not unwelcome, for Emerson carried on in his usual fashion, losing collar buttons, studs and links because of the vehemence with which he attacked these accessories. Ramses had become particularly good at locating collar buttons; he was small enough to crawl under beds and other furniture.

Emerson looked so handsome in evening dress that the effort was all worthwhile. His heightened color and the brilliant blue of his eyes, flaming with rage, only added to his splendid appearance. Unlike most of the men of my acquaintance, he remained clean-shaven. I preferred him without hirsute adornment, but I suspected it was only another example of Emersonian perversity. If beards had gone out of style, Emerson would have grown one.

"You are very handsome, Papa," said Ramses admiringly. "But I would not like a suit like dat. It is too hard to keep clean."

Emerson brushed absently at the cat hairs adhering to his
sleeve, and I sent Ramses off for another bath. It was apparent that no one ever dusted under the bed. We ordered supper to be sent up for John and Ramses and went downstairs to meet our guests.

Dinner was not wholly a success. But then dinner never was when Emerson was in a surly mood, and he was almost always in a surly mood when he was forced to dine out in public and in formal attire. I have seen him behave worse. He had a grudging respect for Mr. Wilberforce, but the Reverend Sayce brought out all his baser instincts. There could not have been a greater contrast between two men—Emerson, tall, broad-shouldered and hearty, Sayce small and spare, with sunken eyes behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore clerical garb even when on an excavation, and looked like a magnified beetle in his long-tailed black coat and reversed collar.

Wilberforce, whom the Arabs called "Father of a Beard," was a more phlegmatic character, and Emerson had given up teasing him, since he only responded by smiling and stroking his magnificent white beard. They greeted us with their customary affability and expressed regret that they would not have the pleasure of meeting Ramses that evening.

"As usual you are au courant with all the news," I said in a spritely manner. "We only arrived yesterday, yet you are aware that our son is with us this season."

"The community of scholars and Egyptologists is small," said Wilberforce with a smile. "It is only natural we should take an interest in one another's activities."